


Seduced

by Sarren



Category: Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: Dark, Horror, M/M, Poor Life Choices, Supernatural Elements, Trick or Treat: Trick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 02:37:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21154202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarren/pseuds/Sarren
Summary: It's too good to be true.(No, really)





	Seduced

**Author's Note:**

  * For [smaragdbird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smaragdbird/gifts).

> Warning in end notes.

Joe’s skin is warm, sweaty even, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Emerson traces lazy patterns on his back, watching the occasional muscle twitch under his fingers. Joe’s eyes are closed, but he’s smiling. Emerson’s gaze drifts over the muscled expanse of Joe’s back, lingering on the dimple at the base of his spine. A jolt of heat goes through him at the memory of last night, at the way Joe had unexpectedly gone wild when Emerson had kissed his way down Joe’s back. 

Joe murmurs something indistinct, his tone questioning. Emerson lets his fingers meander downwards, over the tiny dent. Joe sighs, and his smile widens. Emerson’s fingers drift further down, over the crease of Joe’s arse. Emerson’s not really intending anything by it. He’s idly appreciating the perfectness of Joe’s bum, smooth and perfectly shaped, the way his bespoke suits only hint at, revealed only when the summer heat is stifling and it’s so hot in the office that even Joe gives in and removes his jacket. 

Joe’s legs part.

Emerson stares, his mouth gone suddenly dry. 

They hadn’t done anything like that last night. After Joe had shown up unexpectedly at Emerson’s door, late—too late for company, really—they hadn’t talked much. Joe had been uncharacteristically direct, no shop talk or awkward small talk about their lives. There’d been something alive and burning in his eyes as he’d taken Emerson’s face between his hands and leant forward to kiss him, It was overwhelming, it felt like Joe wanted to consume him.

Emerson had been the one to break the kiss. Reluctantly. Everything within him wanted to throw caution to the winds, to hell with it, to take everything Joe was willing to give him. But Emerson _knew_ Joseph Chandler—knew how out of character it was for his old D.I. to behave like this. The surprise of it—and the euphoria—had lasted until that persistent twinge of concern for Joe’s state of mind had given him the strength to pull away. He had pushed against Joe’s chest until Joe had finally taken the hint and lifted his head.

Emerson had pressed his fingers to his lips to stop himself biting his lip. “What…” he’d croaked and cleared his throat. What could he say? _Hey guv, are you having one of your breakdowns?_ That’d go down well. He didn’t actually want to drive Joe away. “Why now?” he’d finally managed.

“We couldn’t, not when I was your D.I. There’s nothing to stop us now,” Joe had said, his hands resting on Emerson’s shoulders, Emerson’s thin shirt no barrier against the trail of heat they left as they slid down his arms and then around Emerson’s waist. 

It couldn’t be that simple, could it? Emerson hadn’t wanted to question it any more. He couldn’t help wondering if Joe had been drinking again, but when Joe had bent his head again, when his lips had hovered close, when he’d nipped lightly at Emerson’s lower lip, there’d been no smell of alcohol. And Joe’s eyes, so close to Emerson’s, had been direct and clear. Emerson had quashed his reservations and leaned in, giving himself over to whatever it was that Joe wanted from him, and when Joe’s hands had found their way back to Emerson’s shoulders and pressed, just this side of too hard, Emerson had gone to his knees willingly, eagerly, and worshipped Joe’s cock, his eyes locked on Joe’s own unblinking ones. A trick of the light from the coffee table lamp caught Joe’s wide, wide pupils so that Emerson had seen himself reflected in endless darkness. 

Emerson can’t believe he’s hesitating. Something’s lurking at the back of his mind, a niggling sense of wrongness.

Joe’s not smiling anymore and there’s a crease between his brows. He shifts, twisting enough so that he can look up at Emerson with his wide, dark stare and Emerson can’t remember what he was concerned about, because Joe is everything, and he finally gets that cliché about losing oneself in someone’s eyes.

Joe’s handing him a bottle of lube. Emerson squeezes some into his hand and tosses the bottle back onto the bedside table. He holds his palm over Joe’s backside and allows some of the lube to escape, holding his breath as the liquid slides into the crack. He uses the rest of the liquid in his palm to coat two fingers of his other hand and then, his chest painfully tight, slides his fingers after the fluid, between Joe’s cheeks.

Joe draws one leg up to the side and Joe is open to him, exposed. Emerson releases his pent breath in a rush. He rubs his fingers over Joe’s hole, circling, hardly believing his daring as he pushes in, just a little. It doesn’t feel quite real. He can’t believe that this is happening, that Joe would allow this. That Joe would want this. Emerson stares at the sight of his fingers disappearing into Joe’s body. Joe’s silent, his eyes closed again, but a fresh line of sweat has formed on his shoulders and he’s pushing back against Emerson’s fingers, a little at first, then more impatiently, as Emerson slides his fingers half out and then pushes in again, and again, and Emerson thinks that he could do this forever if it meant Joe stayed with here with him, in his bed, Emerson bringing him pleasure.

Emerson’s phone lights up as his alarm goes off. Christ, is it morning already? He’d set it early, full of good intentions to get to the gym before work, but now he has to resist an impulse to smash it for disturbing the moment. 

‘Wake up, wake up,” the chorus blares again. ‘Wake up to the manipulation—”

Emerson reaches out with his free hand and fumbles the alarm off. Joe doesn’t seem fazed though. His eyes are still closed, his face still. Emerson takes a moment. He looks wonderingly at the way Joe, his boss, and the subject of a thousand fantasies, is spread out, naked and oiled up and the hottest thing Emerson’s ever seen.

Joe shifts impatiently and his eyes flicker, as though he’s about to open them and instinctively Emerson moves his fingers, rubbing over the spot that he’d just found before his alarm had gone off, the spot that had made Joe cry out, his whole body shuddering. Joe’s body jerks again. He smiles slightly, his eyes firmly shut again.

It’s habit that has Emerson glancing down at his phone. There are messages. There are always messages. But it’s the one from Joe that catches his attention. He must have missed it, he assumes, because of course Joe wouldn’t show up without calling first.

They’d kept in touch after the team had gone their separate ways. Something in Joe had broken after he’d failed to get a result in the Louis Iver case. Oh, he’d tried for a while, but his heart wasn’t in it anymore, and finally he’d accepted that promotion he’d been groomed for. Miles had taken that as his cue to retire, and Emerson had conveniently (sometimes he thought, too conveniently) been offered a D.S position in another precinct.

They all still meet up for drinks every couple of months. Joe had shown up rarely at first, then more regularly. Miles had told him, on the quiet, that Joe had finally got some counselling, and he did look better, more at peace, as though he’d come to terms with everything. Miles didn’t mention if Joe had found someone, someone who could make him happy, and Emerson was too afraid to ask. 

Joe shifts and makes a low, grumbly noise and his eyelids flicker again. Emerson grins, Joe had rarely been this demanding in his fantasies… No, Joe had been hesitant, looking to Emerson to show him how to give and receive pleasure. Emerson had been his guide, his teacher, and he’d been gentle with Joe. (Except when he hadn’t, when the work had been upsetting, or Mansell had pissed him off and then his fantasies had been darker. Emerson doesn’t really like to think of them in the light of day, about the things he doesn’t like to believe he’d be capable of, really. That’s what fantasies are for, right?)

Emerson moves his fingers again, sliding them over Joe’s prostate again, then withdrawing them completely. He circles the rim with his fingertips, and then, daringly, adds another finger, pressing in up to the second joint, watching the way Joe’s body accepts him easily, greedily. Jesus, Joe’s eager. If he can take three fingers this easily…

The image is suddenly clear in his head. Joe, spreadeagled, his hands, white-knuckled above his head, clutching the headboard, Emerson’s whole fist inside him, and it’s straight out of one of his dead of night fantasies, and he’s so hard it’s bordering on painful.

He plunges his fingers into Joe harder than he meant to, twisting them as he goes. Joe cries out, and Emerson bites his lip, tasting blood. He’s about to apologise, but then Joe’s raising himself up… Joe’s presenting himself to Emerson.

It’s like a dream. Emerson half expects to wake up any moment as he watches himself fuck Joe with his fingers, watches the way Joe leans back towards him when he withdraws, the way Joe hangs his head and shudders when Emerson pushes back into him. God, he’s taking him so easily now, so eagerly. He’s asking for more. Maybe not Emerson’s fist (not yet, whispers the darkness) but he thinks he could take another finger (try it, whispers the darkness). He reaches for the bottle of lube on the bedside table, behind his phone.

The phone with the message from Joe, that he hasn’t checked yet. Something about it though, there’s something bothering him. His copper’s instincts, Skip liked to call it, and he picks up the phone again and looks at the time display.

Sent last night. Some time after Joe had arrived, when they’d been in the living room. Jesus, about the time Emerson had had Joe’s cock down his throat, when he’d been gagging, and drooling and in a state of happy disbelief.

It’s a punch in the gut. The obvious explanation is that the text was delayed. Happens all the time, right? But he knows that’s not it, because it’s them, because they can’t be happy. If it’s not vicious underworld figures torturing them (literally, in Emerson’s case), it’s fucking supernatural evil latching on to them (none of them ever really believed the mouldy pipes explanation).

He doesn’t want to check the text, doesn’t want his paranoia to be proved justified. His thumb hovers over the swipe button as he stares at the screen. Jesus, his fingers are still in Joe’s arse.

He hears Joe laugh, but it’s not the warm chuckle that Emerson loved, all too rare and precious. It’s blackness and malice and it’s not Joe. Emerson swallows hard against the whimper that wants to escape, but he’s not entirely successful. 

“What’s the matter, _Em_,” Joe’s voice says, “don’t you want to fuck me?”

Despite himself, despite his fear, and his distaste for this _thing_, he can’t help the surge of lust at the words. His arousal hasn’t diminished at all at this revelation, if anything he’s even harder. He’s never going to have the real Joe, he knows that. He knows that Joe could never return his feelings. That’s why it’s here, isn’t it? It must know that he’s weak. Corruptible.

He spares a thought to wonder what Joe’s message had been. If it had been a warning of some kind. Or a call for help. God, what if the thing got Joe already? No, he can’t let himself believe that. He won’t.

“Yes,” he says, and he doesn’t even care what he’s agreeing to. He looks up in time to see what he thinks is a flash of surprise in the creature’s eyes. It makes him feel powerful, like just for a moment he’s not the prey. He tosses his phone away at the same time as he yanks his fingers out and then he’s got both hands on the creature’s hips and is plunging inside, falling into it. 

And as he falls, he finds himself thinking of Joe, about the way Joe would smile when he saw Emerson’s badge and watch neatly aligned on his desk, the way Joe would smile at him when Emerson stayed after shift to help him clean up. Most of all, he thinks about the way he’d catch a glance of something in Joe’s eyes over beer, when Joe would look like he wanted to say something, ask Emerson something, and Emerson’s heart rate would pick up and he’d hold his breath….

He can feel the energy draining from his limbs, the weakness stealing over him. He holds the image of Joe close to him, and he hopes that, when they find him, that Joe won’t think too badly of him.

**Author's Note:**

> Not exactly a happy ending for Emerson (at least for now).


End file.
